There Is A Light
by Hardly Here
Summary: John had problems with his reflection in the mirror. Serious problems. Now that the same thing is happening all over again, what's a chick magnet to do? Warning: character death.  Miz/Morrison, Miz/Cena
1. Prologue 1: Darkness

**This is quite a special, special fic to me. For that I'd like to dedicate it to Sammy, or CodyRhodesFan as she is known on here. **

**Some stuff happened in the past which I've not spoken about, ever, and I guess this is me coming to terms with it finally. Obviously this isn't **_**exactly**_** what happened, or else this would be an autobiography and not a fan**_**fiction**_**.**

**X**

Darkness isn't black. Black is an absence of colour, a nothing.

Darkness isn't any one colour, really. It was all of them. One huge, blurry whirl of confusion.

Darkness is a collection of fur coats every colour of the rainbow.

He wears the cumbersome things so elegantly. Anyone else would look like a clumsy child in one of those huge fuckin' coats, but not John. No, he always looked perfect.

Mike used to tell him that on some of his bad mornings. He'd always turn up in the bathroom, glaring at the beast in the mirror with the red-rimmed eyes and the distant, hollow gaze. At first, it was out of vanity. John was awfully sensitive to ribbing from the other guys, and spent ridiculous hours on the internet trawling the wwe forums. Those hours would always culminate in him searching his reflection for answers.

Vanity turned to curiosity. What did everybody else see there? Was he missing something? When Mike gazed into his eyes and told him he loved him, what did he see?

Soon though, a madness which had always clawed away on the fringes of his mind began to grow. It infected everything about him which was gentle and innocent.

Johnny, he called him. Evil bastard. It was Johnny's job to show him everything that was wrong, and how to fix it. He'd sucked the life out of his love, then bled him white. Johnny showed him the darkness.

Sometimes, not all the time, John would lock the door and turn the water on full blast. Mike never knew what happened during those times, but John would always emerge pale and shaking, and there would always be the slight scent of sickness lingering in the bathroom. Maybe it was just in his head but Mike would swear that every time that happened his love always looked a little slighter, a little weaker.

No-one else really noticed John's descent into his own personal oblivion. Appearances were his speciality, and god that man could hold up a facade when he wanted to. Only Mike could really see what was going on; when the door clicked shut and John would collapse silently onto the bed, exhausted and clearly troubled by something.

As time went by, the haunted look slowly disappeared. Mike's celebration was brief. He found that John wasn't improving; he had simply ceased to care.

The next two days were the worst. John was reaching the end of his tether, people were beginning to notice that lithe muscle had been replaced with scrawny flesh and skin stretched taut over bone. When he toppled gracelessly from the top rope, Mike couldn't bring himself to come out for him anymore. He hid in an empty locker room and simply cried. There was nothing more he could do, anyway, not without John doing something for himself too.

X

They both had a few days off after that. Mostly, there was silence. They would lie in bed next to each other, but by no means together. Mike would turn on the television to drown out the sound of his friend's harsh, laboured breathing. It was all he could do to bite down hard, stop himself from crying whenever he caught a glimpse of his friend's thin chest rising and falling erratically. There's a distorted area in Mike's memory. A brief tussle in the bathroom.

_(There's a storm coming_)

A long, one-sided conversation with his best friend and love. He can't even remember what he tried to say to John, but most of it was out of

(_Anger and fear spiral together into a madness which knows no limits)_

desperation, and a strange pang in his chest. Call it intuition, but somehow he knew his friend

(_There's a figure huddled in the eye of the storm, and he seems so damn calm, though his hands are clawing at the bathroom tiles)_

didn'thave very much time left.

X

_A match is struck, and its tiny, delicate flame reflects in the polished mirror. They are twins, but one is made of light, the other glass. They dance as one, and as the trembling hand brings them closer together, they kiss for a second, then vanish in a slender tendril of smoke._

_John doesn't cry. Johnny doesn't like crying. And if he's going to go be with him, well, when in Rome._

"_J-Johnny" he whispers softly. Reaches out to press his palm against his reflection. The coolness sends shivers down his core – this is how it should be._

_I am your guide_

_I am your keeper_

_I am your guardian, and I will make you beautiful._

"_Johnny, if I can't have you, I don't want to live."_

_His reflection stares back, the tears rushing down his cheeks in a mocking parody of real life._

_It's more than John can bear, and he rushes headlong into his destiny._

X

Mike heard the crash, and his body reacted before he had a chance to think. He ran into the bathroom, where his terrified friend stood, staring at the ragged shards of glass that had been the mirror. His hands were held in front of him, slick with blood. Tiny daggers of glass pierced the skin, and one particularly large piece had lodged in his left cheek.

"He's gone," he gasped, still staring at the wall.

"John, come-"

"Don't touch me!" John still couldn't tear his eyes away from the wall, but the venomous words were meant for Mike. He reached up and plucked the shard of glass from his face with a slight wince, and threw it aside with a clatter. Every heartbeat sent a new spurt of bright crimson fluid from the wound, but he didn't seem to care. Just kept staring at the wall.

"John, please. Look at me."

He didn't seem to be able to respond, didn't seem to be able to stop searching madly for his tormentor.

"Look-" Mike grabbed John by the shoulders and spun him around. His head snapped around, and their eyes locked. A frightened pair of brown eyes stared directly into him, and a pair of mangled hands came up and presented themselves. He suddenly looked like a little child.

_Look mummy, look what's happened to my hands._


	2. Prologue 2: Light

Mike had always thought John looked more beautiful at night. There was no explanation for it really, except that perhaps the lighting was different. If must've been the moonlight though, because the harsh street lights gave John's pale features a sickly, yellowish cast. He had collapsed on the way to the car, strength utterly spent or perhaps he had just given up. Either way, Mike had had to carry him.

It was the first close physical contact they had experienced in months, made even more unfamiliar now that John felt so fragile. Mike had been utterly terrified of dropping him, or squeezing him too hard. Now, as a light drizzle began to patter about them, Mike snuck another look at John. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but still he forced his gaze at the window. It was hard to tell if he was staring at the lively night life of the city or if he was looking at his ghostly reflection, but at least he was calm. Too calm, it seemed.

They passed under a bridge and suddenly John placed his hand lightly over his boyfriend's hands, and whispered for him to stop the car.

X

_Mike plucked the shards of glass from John's outstretched palms, his insides clenching every time his boyfriend's breathing hitched in pain. John's attention still lingered on that spot on the bathroom wall, and every once in a while he would sniffle quietly, or whimper, then bite down hard on his lip. Mike asked no questions; given his friend's fragile state of mind at the moment it was unlikely to end well. Instead, he disinfected the wounds, then dressed them as best as he could._

"_My nurse," murmured John, though he lacked the energy to even smile at this._

_Mike sighed and set the first aid kit down._

"_What now, John?"_

_Brown eyes flickered momentarily towards the blank wall, then back again._

"_Take me out," he pleaded softly, "I want to see... life."_

X

So here they were, sitting in a car under a dark underpass. John was watching the people on the street a little head of them with a faint smile playing along his lips. Watching them, he almost felt normal again.

Every last scrap of colour seemed to have drained from his features, leaving his face ashen. The spray tan didn't help, in fact it made him look almost inhuman, a little wooden statue. He plucked at Mike's sleeve, and their eyes locked.

"Michael," he said softly, though the word ended in a faint sob.

Mike nodded, inviting him to continue. But John's eyes just widened, his breath quickening. The faintest gleam of sweat was beginning to show on his forehead. He opened his mouth to take a short, gasping breath, and then tears spilled unheeded down his cheeks.

"I can't say it," he croaked. His words were no more than a breath of sounds now, though his gaze remained steady. He cleared his throat, and tried again.

"Back at the hotel, I took some pills."

Mike wasn't surprised, it wasn't the first time this had happened.

_If you react, you're giving him what he wants._

He'd learned long ago to block out John's random grabs for sympathy, otherwise he might have gone mad from the long nights of crying. The suicide threats. He'd never gone through with it before, though god knows he'd come close. Mike pushed away the little twist in his gut which told him something was very, very wrong and simply held John's gaze.

"I'm at the best I'm ever going to get," he laughed, "You know who told me that?"

Mike nodded silently.

"You're my best friend."

When there was no response, John wriggled a little in his seat.

"I've always wanted to die with you by my side. You always make the scariness go away. Because you're-"

John's throat closed, and he gave a small whimper. A strange fear seemed to grip him then, and he shrank back a little.

"Mike, tell me you love me."

"John, I-" Mike recoiled in horror as John's eyes rolled back into his head and his thin frame began shaking violently. He made no sound, didn't fight it. Just let those shakes overtake his body until he was spent and fell limp against the window, a strange grin on his face.

Mike just stared, not sure if he had just seen what had just happened... was it real?

Involuntarily he took several hitching breaths, and then began to scream.

"You selfish motherfucker!" He howled, verging on hysterics as he realise there was now a dead body lying next to him... in his car...

"Hey man."

Mike's eyes snapped open, and suddenly he was alone. Always alone, nowadays. Except someone was shaking him by the shoulder.

"That was some intense nightmare, man."

Mike blinked the sweat out of his eyes and groaned. His pyjama top was fucking soaked, and John fucking Cena was in his room shaking him awake.

"The hell are you doing here, Cena?"

"Your screaming woke the whole damn floor, but no-one really wanted to come check."

"Charming." Mike hauled himself upright and padded over to the bathroom.

"Well, thanks anyway Cena. You can go now 'cos I'm about to get naked."

"You can call me John, you know."

Mike shook his head.

"Cena." He said firmly, then watched as the man in question left with a tweak of his baseball cap.

Upon entering the bathroom he caught his reflection in the mirror, and threw a glare at it.

"Motherfucker." He snarled.

He'd never be John.


End file.
